


Tranquilize

by ridgeline



Series: Somewhere Out of the Woods [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: All Consent But Not Safe or Sane, Beating, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Consent Torment, Light BDSM, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Waterboarding, We All Need Years Of Therapy But Let's Try Sex Instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26894767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridgeline/pseuds/ridgeline
Summary: You closed the door, undressed, and lay on the bed.  You put yourself under the knife.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Somewhere Out of the Woods [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962229
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27





	Tranquilize

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> This is actually my first ever English writing I think - I have no idea how hard it would be. So yes I couldn't finish this without the help of my friends, especially my betas, Pi and 69. Huge thx to both of you.
> 
> And tbh I wasn't planed hop on another rare ship (MGSV, been here, done that) when I starting to play W3, but it's  
> Filigranka's great stories dragged me in. So I figure it's my honor to writing a story for the wonderful writer. I just hope it's not a terrible, terrible writing one. Thank you for reading, sincerely.

After all the presence of the emperor and meetings, the briefs, the freak shows, you pledged your - and Vergen's - loyalty to the emperor and the empire over and over and over. Until you were numb, until you couldn't remember what you were saying, just repeated all those lines you were all too familiar with. The nobles and the generals wouldn’t even notice the difference. And oh, you can take a bow now, like it's some kind of abstruse swordsmanship.

After all of this, you always claimed there are things you need to do and place you need to be, then excused yourself out.

Later, you always went to the same part of the city, found the same inn, entered the same room, met the same man: Vernon Roche. The hero who freed Temeria, the Lord Protector of Queen Anais, the bastard. _Wonderful, your little introduction speech did get the chance to be renewed._

Most of the time, Roche was pissed drunk. Just like you.

You came here to see him, but you didn't do small talk or shake hands. It wasn't because of old principles. You did those things at the Nilfgaardian court before and now you were off duty. You were both off duty, for a long time - ever since the peace.

But the truth was: You didn't talk at all.

You closed the door, undressed, and lay on the bed. You put yourself under the knife. 

Sometimes you let Roche beat you. When it came to torture, Roche always got this detached calmness and patient sadism. He took his time and hurt you in an orderly way: Heavy blows on the mouth, followed by a few hard, close-hand slaps - usually aimed at your broken cheek; the good old-fashioned gut punch, enough to knock you into blackouts. Hard fists and the metal clubs kept raining on you, unpredictable, unforgiving, plain and simple. You lost in a daze, curled up on the bed for shelter. You gasped for breath - nails dug into sheets, body trembled, covered in cold sweats and dull pain. You were turning into a senseless mess. 

You took everything that was put on you. Every so often you groaned and hissed, but mostly you just endured with silence.

Sometimes Roche burned you. Just a little bit. You just didn't like it when Roche held up a candle to your face, that's all.

Roche always remembered to roll out a heavy blanket that he carried on the bed before he cut you, otherwise it would be a mess. He paid for it before had earned the lesson. Roche usually lay a few straight and shallow wounds on your chest first, just enough to make you bleed. Through the blade that pressed on your skin, old fear returned to you like something rotten emerged from the bottom of the dark lakes. Roche went deeper, he held his old combat knife in solid hands, carved on the inside of your thighs in a quiet and concentrated manner. You sucked on the inside of your cheek through your broken teeth to steady yourself. The brass-like smell of blood lingered in your nose, familiar and almost nostalgic. You inhaled with it, indulged in the flood of burning pain and old memories.

_Let me know if it's too much._ Roche repeated this line in a restrained tone, as if he actually cared about your status; _Let me know when you can't handle it, elf._

You looked at him in the mist of pain, saw the broken veins in his face. Those thin, blue lines under his skin spread all over Roche's gaunt cheek, along with dark and grey stubbles. You wonder if any of Roche's men knew how drunk he was back in those days.

It's alright, he wouldn’t die in here.

You didn’t know why this idea sounded so funny. 

Afterward, Roche would take care of you, step by step. He took out the medical supplies and stitched your wounds, put them on dressing. When he’s done with that, Roche wiped the blood and filth off your body with care, get rid of all the evidence he left on you. All the new wounds were hidden safely, nobody would discover it. In the end, Roche assisted you to sit up, fed you some wine. 

During the whole process, you stared at Roche, observed his almost elegant motions. Blood - your blood - tainted Roche's hands and his hard jaw. Red stains smeared over his bared skin, partly remained in crimson, partly faded to pink. A dizzy and ecstatic look appeared on Roche's face, in his own stoic manner.

You stopped wondering if Roche knew he was addicted since a long time ago. You just don't understand what Roche wanted - or what's he could possibly get from your little contract. 

You decided you didn't care about that, either.

The worst thing that Roche could have done to you was not physical. At least it wouldn't actually make physical damages. 

You didn't go to that part often. But when you do, Roche would lay you down and have both of your limbs tied to the bed. He used silk ribbons because it won't leave visual traces on your wrists for other people to see. You always got two humble opinions about this: first, you hated this. Because it made you look like a dh’oine mistress; second, you got this feeling that Roche would be more satisfied if this was done in a dungeon, like in his long passing days. But now his hands were tied and so were yours. It's a punishment you both had to bear. 

When Roche had you bound up tightly, he would leave you here and go for the basin. He had it ordered before you came. That, and along with some towels. You watched him dipped towels into the hot water, soaked it properly. After twenty minutes or so, Roche returned to you with those wet towels, warm water dripped on the bedside.

He would stare at you with a calm expression, then put those towels on your face.

After that, it's sheer darkness. 

You were trapped. You couldn’t breathe. Those heavy and drenched towels covered all your face, blocked all the air out. You were panting, felt panic building up in your chest. You blinked, tried to ignore the claustrophobic feeling. Water oozed from the wet fabrics, filled your nose and mouth slowly. Even though you tried to keep your lips shut, you were still drowning. You swore in multiple languages, your shoulder and bounded limbs writhed and twisted in plain rage and hate, kept bumping on the bed, made the whole bed frame shook. But it's useless, you had nowhere to run. The temperature and suffocation took away your ability to think, it was overwhelming. Finally, panic turned into dread, you were terrified. You made some painful sound, but it's even louder than thunder to you. _No - no,_ something inside your cracked, made a furious scream, _keep it quiet, or **they** will hear you. _

In a faint moment, suddenly you were back in the Nilfgaardian jail. You laughed, then cried out, then begged and begged and begged and begged and begged. _No one would know,_ they told you, comforted you. _Just give us some names. See? it's harmless. You will be dead anyway, little squirrel. No one would know what slipped out of this pretty mouth._

All wounds - old ones and new ones - on you were burning, but it's better this way. You could not survive without this. Let it happen, other than waiting for it in the long, dull days of Vergen and knowing it would come for sure. 

Nilfgaardians had taught you the other instructive thing on the first day of Vrihedd Brigade, as an education for uncivilized beings. It's a system for scout tactics, they explained: when the surroundings are safe, you were on the first-degree alert. If there were any suspicious circumstances or visual obstacles, you were on the second-degree alert, you kept an eye out for it, stay sharp. When there's an immediate danger or an enemy attack, you were on the third-degree alert, in this case, you need to kill the whoreson who's nearest to you like five minutes ago. During wartime, all Nilfgaardian soldiers were supposed to stay on the third-degree alert all the time. You scoffed about this dh’oine nonsense. But now, here you are, on the battlefield, in the woods, at Vergen, you were on the third-degree alert. You saw enemies everywhere. And the dreams, they just wouldn't stop. You were delusional, you were paranoid. You were worried and anxious, terrified. It's hilarious, really.

Sometimes Saskia would ask you if you were alright (No, you haven't slept in three days, but it was normal), you nodded with your heroic look, knew all too well she - or anyone wouldn't understand. It didn’t matter too. Insignificant pain was real, but your life wasn't - it didn’t feel like it anymore. Your life was a cage full of fallen commandos and haunted memories.

Your body, this disposable thing.

After all the sufferings and hallucinations, you said the word, merely a whisper: _enough._

Then Roche set you free.

He wouldn't comment on your _ill-manner._ A good Interrogator - even a former one - knew how to gain trust. Roche untied you, put a quilt on you and waited until you can sit up on your own. You were out of breath, exhausted, and shaky. Cold sweats and water drops dripped off your naked upper body. The funny things were - although the torment seems to belong for you, it usually only lasted no more than twenty minutes. Half an hour top. _Talking about dramatic._ When you were resting, Roche would feed you some food, and kept an eye on you, prevented you from vomiting.

You ate in silence and wanted to kill him. But you figured he probably knew this and found it satisfying.

When everything was done, you usually left first, Roche stayed to clean the room. You got dressed and thought about the excuses you were going to make. If Roche had beaten you (especially on the face), you got drunk and caught into a fight in the ally; If Roche cut you, you got drunk and fell under steps that's why you walked funny. If Roche burned you - well, nobody can see it. You had to be careful, and Roche would pay for everything.

You would see him in the next diplomacy season. Until then, you pretended you were disjointed.

Sometimes - only incidentally - you would let Roche fuck you. Payment for his hard work or a way to erase the tense. Sex was always easier (and cheaper) than anything you were willing to pay. In those circumstances, since Roche was always drunk, it was hard for him to get a proper erection (so much for the dh’oine sexual ability mystery). But neither he nor you cared about that. You would blow his half-hard cock a bit, lick off the pre-comes, or just give him some tease. He would blow you too, or give you a handjob, or use his fingers or something else on you. Very rarely, when Roche did get a full hard-on, you rode him or let him take you from behind. With eyes closed, it's easier to picture someone else. Roche's in you, his warm fingers dragged on your soft cock. He murmured half-heartedly about sex fantasies. You didn't care. Both of you were too old, too tired. You could play along with mercy.

But there's one time, Roche was in the mood.

It's silly, really. Someone recognized Roche on a Nilfgaardian court ball. Someone important from the Northern Army and remembered clearly how brave and fierce the former Blue Stripes commander was on the battlefield. You didn't laugh - you didn't even know about this. You were on the other side of the hall, only caught the tail of this conversation when you decided to take a walk. _"--I'm overjoyed to see a familiar face at this place. Temeria must be proud of her true sons."_ That particular word made you turn your head, just in time to witnessed Roche's face whitened. He was raged, boiling under his brand-new fancy cloth (blue and white, what else can it be). Then he said something like, _thank you, sir._

You laughed, of cause. 

Next thing you knew, you were in your room. Roche's hurting you, you were hurting him. You fought your way to here. Blood was everywhere. You just couldn't stop laughing, taunting Roche. Because he made it way too easy and you were drunk. He was drunk, too. Not drunk enough to pass out but enough to make this as an excuse to attack an ally - you. You spitted out all the vicious words, all the truth you saved from a long time ago and watched him being skinned alive in a joyful way. In return, Roche hit you hard and ruthless, like you were a ghost, from some long-forgotten past that he wanted to bury. The hollow sound of your own voice echoed in the room, and you didn’t know how to make it stop. You didn't want it to stop. With a thumping sound, the back of your head hit on the floor, you fell silent all of a sudden. Your face was numb, lips spit. Roche rode on your chest, stared at you, frowned.

Then he reached out, fingertips caressed on your wound. Your blood stained him.

"What a joke." Said Roche, with a humorless tone.

You sucked his already hardened cock, left traces of blood on the tip, like the other parts of Roche's body. He took you to the bed and fucked you raw. The way Roche behaved on the bed was like a hungry animal. He hurt you in the same way as he hurt you with his fists before, rough and furious. You screamed and cried out and moaned and bit on your knuckle to block the sounds. He thrust inside you, for a moment, you go lightheaded. Dull pain and pleasure and a ticklish feeling all mixed up, swirled on the inside of your abandon. This brought out your anger, a dark feeling. You bit on his jaw in the blindness until you tasted blood. He slapped you for good measure, then hit you one more time, as if you were some untamed animals. This even outraged you more. You elbowed on Roche's chest, then bit his throat. Roche pinned you back, bumped into you brutally. You wrapped your legs around Roche's waist to pull him closer, let him nuzzle you. When Roche let his guard down, you attacked again. This time, you aimed at the tip of his right ear. You managed to tear off some skin. Roche drew back, covered his wounded ear, face twisted with annoyance. Blood dripped through his fingers. _Now you knew what does this feel like,_ you murmured with a faint smile, _half-eared bastard. Now you are just like us._

Roche grabbed both of your wrists, pinned them high above your head. You struggled in half-mind, still wanted to admire your own work. Roche forced in you, rocked his hips like an angry dog. He even gasped like a dog, too. It was disgusting. You sucked on Roche's swollen ear, licked off the traces of blood. He panted with raging sound to your neck. _A dog, really._ You shared your opinion for dogs and what will happen to them once they were no longer useful with Roche and used your sweetest manner, but he didn't appreciate it. _Shame._ Roche just kept thrust in you, grabbed on both sides of your hips. You groaned weakly, Roche's blood flowed past his chest, dribbled on your face. You didn't understand - none of this made any sense: _you pushed and pushed him until he reached the limit. But why?_ Not until you found Roche's fingers slowly clambering up on your neck, choking you gradually. You looked him in the eye and gasped without sound. Black lights started to flash through your eyeground. You waited for him to finally announce the truth of you. His thumb pressed on your weaken pulse, cut the blood from rushing to your brain. You were dizzy, euphoric, and terrified, all too joyful for the feeling of coming back to the old life as if it was a worn but beloved cloth.

"This," Roche whispered to your ear, "Is how you know it was close." 

Even so, he didn't fulfill your wish.

Later, in your bed, you proposed a deal, asked Roche to play with you at the diplomacy seasons. He agreed, added some rules and details. The wound on the tip of Roche's ear turned into purple and yellow, it will leave a scar. _I don't want to hurt you,_ he explained, _not for real._

_Oh, but you do. That's exactly the point._ Thought you, but you didn't reply. Roche said something more; something meaningless and sentimental to your ears. You didn't remember those words then, didn't remember them now.

You curled with Roche, let him take you to the life after.

FIN


End file.
